


Sink Like a Stone

by Lissadiane



Category: Whatever- SJ Goslee
Genre: I'm Going To Hell For This, M/M, Rook Wallace is Not Impressed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 13:42:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10720452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lissadiane/pseuds/Lissadiane
Summary: Mike Tate has his life all figured out. It's fucked, but functional. He's got his mom, he's got Rosie, he's got Lisa and the Cheerleaders, and his crappy garage band. And he's got Rook Wallace, his enemy-turned-love-interested.And then Wallace's little brother has to fuck everything up.





	Sink Like a Stone

**Author's Note:**

> This is an alternate scene to S.j. Goslee's AMAZING novel Whatever. It happens after Homecoming, in which Leoni oh-so-memorably punches Mike in the face for seeming to be interested in Rook Wallace's little brother Serge, when he should clearly know that Wallace wants in his pants. It's a tragedy for everyone concerned.
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY, [pantstomatch!](https://pantstomatch.tumblr.com/) I hope you like it. At least a little bit. You're the best. It is unbeta'd and unedited because that's how I roll (and I have a meeting in like 20 minutes and I am UNPREPARED.)

Fully intending to hide in the second floor bathroom for the rest of the day, Mike’s curled up in the window well, smoking and angrily contemplating when things turned into such a fucking shit show.

His eye is aching, he looks like he _did_ get into a fucking rumble, thank you Cam, and he can hear Lisa’s growing concern-masked-as-fury from across the school. He’s already got a headache – he doesn’t have the courage to subject himself to that just yet.

He’s got everything he needs in this bathroom to survive for a few hours. He’ll be fine.

And then the door flies open and the _last_ person he wants to see today stumbles into the bathroom, pale and belligerent and looking over his shoulder like he’s being chased.

Mike sighs and stubs out his cigarette, and Serge jumps, startled.

He stares at Mike for a moment or two, eyes wide and blinking slowly. “There’s a rumor going around that you got attacked by a bunch of ninjas,” he says, hunching his shoulders and cocking his head as he studies the damage.

Mike snorts, sliding out of the window. “Nothing that dramatic,” he says. 

Serge nods slowly. “Chris says he did it,” he says.

Mike shrugs, irritated. “It looks worse than it is,” he says. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“Shouldn’t _you_?”

Mike laughs. “I’m old enough to make my own decisions,” he says. “And I’ve got actual issues I’d like to avoid.”

Serge drops his backpack to the floor, kicks it under a sink, and pulls himself into the window well Mike had just vacated, He leans forward, forearms braces on his thighs, and scowls. “You’re not _that_ much older than me,” he says.

“Old enough,” Mike tells him.

Serge looks away. “Besides, I’ve got things to avoid. People to avoid. You’re not the only one with shit going on, you know.”

Leaning a hip against the sink, Mike says indulgently, “Alright, then. What are you hiding from?”

“Carter,” Serge confesses, after a moment.

“Chubby sophomore?” Mike asks, eyebrows raising. “He giving you trouble? Doesn’t seem the type.”

“Not him,” Serge says, cheeks turning pink, arms crossing over his chest. “His sister. Sophie.”

Mike smirks. “Girls are scary,” he agrees. “Is she hot?”

Serge darts a quick look at him and then looks away. “I guess,” he says, voice going quiet. He shrugs, pulling his shoulders in, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Mike doesn’t like seeing it – he’s worked pretty hard these last few weeks to get Serge out of his shell, not to watch him crawl back into it.

He comes closer, ducking his head, trying to meet Serge’s eyes. “Hey,” he says. “Dude. Girls are totally scary. It’s okay – do you like her?”

Serge huffs, finally lifting his head. “She likes me,” he says. “She’s okay. But I don’t…” He shrugs again, nervously chewing his bottom lip.

“Okay,” Mike says. “So don’t date her then.”

He goes to step back, to move away – maybe to light another cigarette. Before he can, Serge reaches out, hand wrapping around Mike’s wrist, and he says, “I just – I like someone else.”

Time stops for a heartbeat or two, and Mike stares down at his hand, his long fingers, smudged with pencil lead, his bitten fingernails. Then he slowly turns his head to look back up at Serge, who’s got an impressive mixture of defiance and anxiety on his face that quite frankly gives Mike a stomach ache just looking at it. It must feel like shit.

“Shit,” Mike says, quiet.

Serge’s eyes narrow, his mouth twisting before he says in a rush of tangled up words, “It’s not a big deal – you don’t have to do anything. It’s stupid, I was just – I thought – I know you, and my brother, and – I _know_ okay, fuck you, I’m not a fucking kid, I can make my own—”

“Your brother’s gonna kill me,” Mike tells him, and then he buries his fingers in Serge’s hair, twists just a little, and kisses him.

It’s a light kiss, at first, lips barely brushing, and Mike has half a second to think, _what the fuck am I doing?_ But before he can quite come up with an answer, Serge’s mouth opens under his with a soft, breathy sound and Mike can’t resist _that_.

He licks his way into Serge’s mouth as Serge twists his hands in the front of Mike’s shirt, tugging him closer, until Mike is cradled by Serge’s thighs as he sits in the window well.

It’s easy to get carried away. Serge is an enthusiastic if not particularly skilled kisser, but he learns fast, and the fact that Mike’s the one teaching him what to do with his tongue sends shivers all up under his skin. His heart is pounding, he’s finding it difficult to breathe, and he just keeps thinking, _Wallace never has to know_.

And then, finally, Serge pulls away, panting, and staring up at him with a mixture of panic and belligerence, as if he’s just _waiting_ for Mike to lash out and push him away, to reject him, or punch him in the face, or hurt him like everybody else probably eventually gets around to hurting him. His mouth is red, swollen, and he licks his bottom lip like he’s chasing Mike’s taste.

Mike smooths his ruffled hair instead, tugs Serge’s shirt until it’s not rucked up awkwardly at the shoulders anymore, and he clears his throat.

“Okay,” he says, voice rough. “Okay, this changes things.”

Serge starts to smile, a tiny uptick at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah?” he asks, and Mike can hear the hope he’s trying to conceal.

“Yeah,” Mike says, hands on Serge’s thighs. 

This changes just about everything.


End file.
